


Telperion and Laurelin

by YuunaFiction



Category: Naruto, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Feels, BAMF Círdan | Nowë, BAMF Hatake Kakashi, Boys In Love, But Glorfindel goes gaga for that shit, Círdan becomes a dad because Kakashi needs one, Dorks in Love, Drama, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Families of Choice, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Hatake Kakashi Has Issues, Hatake Kakashi Needs a Hug, Hatake Kakashi is Bad at Feelings, Hatake Kakashi is a Little Shit, Hatake Kakashi is a Troll, Idiots in Love, Kakashi loves Círdan because he treats him like a son, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nobody is prepared for Kakashi's type of badass, Pining Hatake Kakashi, Romance, lots of love, pining Glorfindel (Tolkien)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29708556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YuunaFiction/pseuds/YuunaFiction
Summary: Awoken in the middle of the night, Círdan follows Ulmo's whispers to the sea where he finds a lost silver-haired elf washed ashore and in dire need of help. Tasked with the responsibility of his new charge's health and wellbeing, Círdan finds more than the turn of tides that Ulmo foretold - he finds a son.
Relationships: Hatake Kakashi & Círdan | Nowë, Hatake Kakashi/Glorfindel (Tolkien)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 105





	1. Home is where the heart is

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya, here's another WIP (like I don't already have a bunch of them) but I can't help myself. The first chapter is basically a prologue and setting the stage for all the later stuff. I'm looking forward to writing this one. Ah well, have fun! 
> 
> Enjoy!

Círdan followed the whispers coming from the sea, feet bare and silver robe dragging in the sand, the moon high and his own silver hair appearing all the more luminous in the night. If there was one thing he always listened to; it was the sea. Ulmo only ever whispered from the sea when something of importance was afoot. As such, when the whispers woke him in the night, Círdan knew that something was amiss. Yet, despite the Teleri elves adoration of Ulmo and the Maia who served him, not many had the privilege to hear the Vala’s voice; but Círdan did, and he always listened.  
  
Ulmo spoke of change and opportunity – of _potential_ , and Círdan was intrigued. Not often did things change because of the Valar – least of all for the elves on Círdan’s side of the sea. But then, the Valar had justly thought to punish those that turned their back on them during the great exile and the price was steep indeed. It just so happened that Círdan and his people never had – but rather stayed in search for their High King and was thus never burdened by the punishment that others of their kin carried. Círdan and his people weren’t like the Noldor or the Silvan elves to the east. The Teleri still held the Valar in high regard and loved them as fiercely as they always had, and the Valar themselves still cherished and loved the Teleri. Thus, when the Valar did reach out to the elves of Middle-Earth, the first ones to know were the Teleri; Círdan, to be precise.  
  
As Círdan walked further from the port of Mithlond, the white beach forming a silver road in the night, his gaze found itself drawn toward the glittering sea. The sea was mostly still, only small ripples of water curling onto the sand, yet Círdan wasn’t fooled. In the distance, underneath the dark glittering water, something drew closer as though pushed forward by the very sea itself. He stopped and then turned, edging closer until his ankles disappeared beneath the water.  
  
A glimmer of metal caught his eyes then, and Círdan could finally see the reason for why Ulmo called for him that night. As the sea pushed forward, a still and pale face silently broke the surface of the willful water, and Círdan stepped forward; ready to receive that which Ulmo deemed to give.  
  
The something – an elf – was as still and quiet as the dead. Wounded as he were while his blood-colored the water around him. His hair long and silver so pure that he could have been born from Telperion itself. Though an elf in body, doubt to his identity caused Círdan to furrow his brows, for the elf wore garbs of which he’d never seen before. Foreign and strange. But it didn’t stop him from reaching down to assure his face remained above water lest he drowned.  
  
Círdan listened.  
  
A mighty warrior from far away, misplaced but rescued, a being capable of great feats of strength, but alone in a foreign land. A master of war. A turn of tides. A being which only the Teleri could be trusted to guide. For they were used to the temper of the wild sea and only they understood the turmoil raging underneath a still surface. A champion capable of wielding power as wrathful as the sea.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Círdan stood sentinel over his new charge. Rarely leaving for he couldn’t quite bring himself to tear his eyes away from the foreign elf unconscious on the soft and comfortable bed. The stranger was littered with wounds – all of which he’d carefully treated and cleaned. But there was nothing he could do about the old silvery spiderweb of scars that covered his skin, but to Círdan it merely spoke of strength and an unrivaled capacity for survival. For that was who the stranger undoubtedly was, a survivor. Just like the Teleri who’d suffered so greatly. It made Círdan’s heart swell with pride so fierce that he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the stranger would find a new home among his kin – for they all knew the suffering and grief that lingered in the hearts of survivors.  
  
The Teleri was easily overlooked, and while their hearts belonged to the sea and the art of different crafts, they were no less familiar with the art of war and warfare as others of their race had themselves believe. Just as few remembered that Círdan was no ordinary elf himself. For he too was easily overlooked and forgotten in the face of the willful Noldor and the King. But Círdan, unlike many, was wise and his life-experience unmatched on Middle-Earth. Few could claim the right to call the elves awoken in Cuiviénen kin – but indeed, he was kin, for he too had awoken there.  
  
It made him smile then because he knew that they would be overlooked no longer, and the upstart Noldor soon humbled. However, not for some time yet. First, the Teleri’s new charge needed to heal and find his feet in this strange and foreign land. There was much he needed to learn and much the Teleri needed to learn from him before the tides could turn.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
It was, perhaps, unsurprising that the first thing the stranger did when waking up was to throw a sphere of fire at the head of the Lord of Mithlond. Not because Círdan had suspected the stranger capable of wielding fire with his bare hands and breathe it like a dragon, but because he was a warrior and the place he’d awakened in foreign. The fire was indeed impressive, but his burning tapestry less so.  
  
With a bland gaze, Círdan reached for the newly arranged vase of flowers on the dresser behind him, and swiftly removed the sweet-smelling magnolia before he unceremoniously flung the contents of the vase at the burning tapestry. With a weak sizzle of a dying fire, a small waft of smoke rose from the blackened wall ornament, and the remains of a telling of a historic event hung pathetically tilted on the white marble wall.  
  
Círdan calmly placed the vase back on the dresser, returned the magnolia flowers to their rightful place, and turned around to the stranger staring from the bed. With a single brow rising to show his disapproval, Círdan silently crossed his arms and waited. He did so for a considerable length of time for the stranger sat rigid with aggression tightly coiled around him like a snake poised to strike at a moment's notice. Though the stranger only appeared to have a single functioning eye, for the other was firmly closed and vertically marred with a scar, the elf’s gaze was no less penetrating and hostile.  
  
“I would not have cared for and treated your injuries had I wished you harm.” Círdan dryly informed the stranger and watched as the elf’s brows furrowed slightly before his gaze slowly moved from the Lord of Mithlond to the contents of the room. The warrior’s shoulders were stiff as he cataloged his surroundings. Eventually, his gaze returned to Círdan where the processes repeated itself.  
  
Then the foreigner opened his mouth, and the words that spilled out of it caused Círdan’s own mouth to press into a thin line. First, it appeared, Círdan had to teach the warrior Sindarin, because he could understand as much of the foreigner's words as it seemed the warrior could of his – which posed a significant problem for them both.  
  
With a sigh, Círdan uncrossed his arms and contemplated the situation. The warrior was undoubtedly confused and wary of his new and unfamiliar surroundings, lost as he was. But with a language barrier stopping them from verbally speaking, the only solution was to provide him with as much visual information as possible to alleviate his increasing unease and to stem the tide of hostile actions should he feel cornered and threatened.  
  
Círdan allowed himself a quiet hum of thought as he turned his attention to the bookcase at the side of the room, fitted beside the open balcony overwatching the sea. With quiet footsteps and fingers trailing over the back of leather-covered books, Círdan pulled out a brown leather-bound journal with folded maps. With deft fingers, he untied the leather-cord holding it closed and leafed through the parchment until he found what he’d been looking for. Tucking the journal under his arm, Círdan turned his attention back toward the warrior whose eyes were fixed on him as a predator would on its prey. Thus, he decided, allowing the warrior to unfold and examine the map on his own was wiser than crowding him lest he wanted to suffer injury. As such, Círdan held out the folded map, close enough to reach, and waited. With a suspicious glare, it was taken from his hand and slowly unfolded.  
  
It did not take long before the warrior’s confusion and unease became far more apparent on his face than before. His grey eye moved painstakingly over each inked line of the map, taking it all in and searching for familiarities. Yet there was none to be found. His gaze then locked with Círdan’s once more, and where a predator's aggression had been there was now growing desperation and fear.  
  
Círdan slowly reached for the journal tucked underneath his arm and slowly approached the side of the warrior’s bed. With exaggerated telegraphed movements he reached for a nearby chair and took a seat at his side. His mouth set in a grim line as he raised his hand and pointed to a point on the map.  
  
“Mithlond.” He carefully articulated, and then pointed to the open balcony, “Mithlond.” Then his finger returned to the map where it trailed a small distance south and stopped, “You.”  
  
Their eyes met then, and Círdan knew he understood. The warrior swallowed audibly and turned his fragile attention back to the map. Círdan continued by moving his finger to the left – to the sea – and repeated, “You.” And then slowly moved his finger right – to the shoreline – where he’d been found.  
  
A shuddering exhale disturbed the otherwise silent room, and Círdan could do little else but watch as the warrior came to realize just how lost he was. Yet, the warrior’s brows narrowed as his finger settled on the map and dragged it further left until it crossed the sea outside of Mithlond and eventually over the edge of the map. Their eyes locked again, but this time with a question resting in the lone grey eye, and Círdan opened the journal in his hands to find the map of Aman.  
  
It was a somewhat reasonable conclusion that he’d washed up on the opposite side of a continent, Círdan felt, and that he’d been adrift at sea, but as the map of Aman was laid out beside the first one, the warrior’s knuckles turned white.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
It was with a troubled heart that Círdan placed a tray with an assortment of food at the warrior’s bedside table. For days the only thing the warrior did was to use the chamber pot in the bathroom and stare at the spread of maps on his bed. A large number of maps had been spread across his lap, but none of them held the answers the elf sought. Once Círdan had managed to convey that the maps covered all of Arda, the warrior had retreated to the depth of his own mind – his lone grey eye dull with loss.  
  
Not only did Círdan bear witness to the warrior’s realization that he was lost in a foreign land, but also to the jarring and frightening conclusion that he was no longer of the same race as he’d once been. Had he not stopped the warrior from clawing at his own ears, he may very well have severed the pointed tips. Even the long hair appeared to have been a new addition to his person. The grief in the warrior’s heart was palpable and it worried Círdan greatly. If he allowed him to sink too deep into the depth of despair, he could very well fade before he ever had the opportunity to leave his room.  
  
As such, Círdan took care as he slowly piled the maps into a neat stack and placed them at the foot of the bed. His heart twisting when the warrior showed no reaction to the movements. His lone grey eye dull and unseeing as he stared at his own hands. Reaching for the bed covering, Círdan lifted and draped it across the warrior’s shoulders before he wrapped an arm around his waist and helped him up onto his feet. With legs seemingly too heavy to lift, Círdan moved them over to the open balcony where the morning sun shone from just above the horizon, painting the harbor city of Mithlond in a sparkling white. The turquoise water lapped upon the white marble stones of the port, boats, and ships of finely carved wood rocking on its surface, providing a vast expanse of life and movement in contrast to the silence and stillness of the room. All across the open harbor were elves only just beginning their day, fishing-nets to repair and fold, bait to prepare, ships to craft, food to cook and bake, sword practice to start, and weavers and tailors laughing and gossiping as they folded and stretched brightly colored fabrics between them.  
  
As Círdan glanced at the warrior’s face, he was heartened to see that the dullness of his eye was gone and instead wide with wonder and curiosity. He knew then, that though it would take time for the warrior to find his place among them, he eventually would.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The warrior’s name was Kakashi. Círdan found the name to be quite peculiar and twisted oddly in his mouth but hearing Kakashi attempt to pronounce his own name was enough of an incentive to continue to repeat it if only because of the amusement of Kakashi’s atrocious pronunciation. Even though Kakashi’s pronunciation needed work, it didn’t escape Círdan’s notice that the elf was remarkably intelligent. He rarely needed to repeat himself more than once or twice, and sometimes not even that, to remember which words meant what.  
  
Teaching Kakashi Sindarin was a surprisingly enjoyable experience. For every new word Kakashi learned, Círdan was taught the equivalent in Kakashi’s own language, and truly, as he listened to Kakashi speak the more appealing the language became. The beautiful words rolling on the tongue when properly structured into a sentence but holding the power to be equally threatening depending on the tone of voice.  
  
He was less impressed by the written language, however. While Sindarin was hardly easy to write and read, it was nothing to the seemingly random symbols and signs that made up Kakashi’s written language. It left Círdan’s mind spinning and Kakashi vindictively smug whenever he tried to write a coherent sentence and failing spectacularly. Yet, progress was swift. Stilted sentences formed quickly and though it was hardly perfect, it was progress nonetheless.  
  
Although Kakashi was far from accepting of his situation, he was no longer listless and apathetic to his circumstances. Truly, the warrior’s ability to adapt and reorient himself somewhere so foreign left Círdan reeling whilst in private. It would take time for Kakashi to see Arda as his home – to see Mithlond as his home – but Círdan was determined to see it done. He didn’t know anything about the family or the people he’d left behind if any, but it was hardly a hardship to welcome him into his own family of one. Círdan had no children of his own nor a wife or husband. Sharing his home with Kakashi was a welcomed change he’d not expected. Spending their days studying and guiding Kakashi through Mithlond and its surrounding villages also served the dual purpose of making sure Kakashi didn’t feel trapped or caged – something which eased the ramrod-straight posture of the warrior whenever he left his room.  
  
As time slowly passed, Círdan could safely say he considered Kakashi a dear friend just as the reverse was also true.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
It came as a surprise then, that upon learning that Kakashi was merely three decades old, Círdan’s heart had seemingly twisted as a new feeling grew inside his chest: protectiveness. For all that Kakashi was a warrior worthy of Ulmo’s attention and the bearer of great change – he was still a child in the eyes of the elves. And so, without thought, Círdan had found himself increasingly treating Kakashi as one would their child. With praise easy on his tongue and a strong and comforting hand resting upon the warrior’s shoulder whenever the situation allowed, a bond of familial design began to bloom between them. Though touch was something Kakashi appeared to instinctively shy away from, he slowly grew more at ease with the paternal affection from the Lord of Mithlond, tentatively returning it with small hesitant smiles the best he could. However, nothing could have prepared Círdan what that paternal bond between them would eventually bring forth – what the trust and sense of safety he’d wrapped around Kakashi like a blanket would mean for the warrior.  
  
“My father died when I was five,” Kakashi confessed one day. The two of them were sitting on a terrace overlooking the harbor. Surrounded by white roses and a spread of tea and biscuits before them. A common occurrence at the end of a long day of shared studies. “He committed ritual suicide by stabbing himself in the stomach. I found him dead in our house.”  
  
Círdan grimaced as he turned a concerned gaze toward his charge.  
  
“And your mother?”  
  
“She died in childbirth.”  
  
“Am I to understand that your father took his own life and left you to fend for yourself at the age of five?” the flat tone of disapproval could not be missed in Círdan’s tone. “Who cared for you then?”  
  
“I did.” Kakashi’s voice was flippant, but Círdan was not fooled. “I’m sure it has not escaped your notice that I’m not exactly a civilian. The training to become a shinobi – a soldier where I’m from, as my father was – typically begins when you’re six years old. There’s an academy that teaches you military protocol, basic combat, and survival skills to ensure you survive walking past the front gates of the village when you graduate. Normally, a child graduates at the age of eleven or twelve, and when they do they receive their first official rank within the military. Genin. By law, a genin is considered an adult.” Kakashi trailed off and then reached for his cup of tea – ignoring the elf who sat stiff and appalled at his side.  
  
“We were at war back then. So, whenever my father was at home, he would spend the time training me. Since we were from a historically strong if small clan, he was in high demand in the field and didn’t have much time to spend with me. But I was a smart kid and I realized that when I succeeded with something he was proud and pleased with me. So, I did my best in training and entered the academy a year early. Three and a half months later, my father was sent on a mission that could shorten – potentially stop – the war if a missive was delivered in a specific timeframe. But his team was ambushed, and his comrades' taken hostage. He had a choice between saving his comrades or completing the mission. He chose his comrades. They did not appreciate it, and my father was disgraced. He killed himself… and two weeks later I graduated from the academy at the age of five and became an adult by law.”  
  
There was a pregnant pause and only the soft rustle of fabric could be heard on the terrace – Círdan’s fist clutched his silver robe.  
  
“Genin mostly perform maintenance around the village to learn discipline and to work together with their new teammates. It’s not unusual to spend a few years doing that and training on the side to hone your skills so that when you eventually go on more dangerous missions, you’ll be equipped to handle them. But since we were at war, genin teams were sent out on the front lines like everyone else. Nobody could spare the time nor afford to coddle them if we wanted to win…”  
  
Kakashi stared into his cold tea then and continued numbly, “I had my first kill at the age of six. By the age of nine, I was leading my own teams and then at twelve, I reached the highest rank you could get. By thirteen I was recruited to ANBU – the shadow ranks – and begun performing sanctioned assassinations, sabotage, and seduction missions. By fourteen my entire genin team – the equivalent of a second family – had all died in various horrific ways. I stayed in the shadow ranks until I was twenty-six: average serving time in ANBU is about four or five years before you die. I spent eleven years there. Then I was pulled out and had three or four years leading a genin team of my own with disastrous results where one turned traitor… and then we went to war again. We fought that world's equivalent of Morgoth, hundreds of thousands of people died in the span of half a year, and then two of my students – rivals, one of them the traitor – ended up fighting once the final battle was won. My third student and I got caught in-between two of their most devastating techniques, and the last thing I saw was my third student’s torse twisting out of place and her intestines splattering all over the ground… and then I woke up here… and set your tapestry on fire.”  
  
Círdan could do little else but stare in horror as Kakashi unloaded an abridged and condensed summarization of his life and eventual arrival on Arda – something he had never talked about before. Something that had laid heavy on his shoulders and been choked into silence until he’d finally burst at the seams – the words spilling out of his mouth without an end in sight.  
  
When Kakashi eventually fell silent, Círdan had to swallow repeatedly to ease the acid burn of bile halfway up his throat. Then Círdan pushed up from his chair, rounded the table, and reached for the _child_ who’d been dragged through blood and horror all his life. With the strength of a mighty and ancient elf, Círdan dragged a rigid and shocked Kakashi unto his feet – Kakashi’s lone grey eye flashing with naked terror at the thought of rejection – and then into Círdan’s waiting arms. He tucked the frozen elf under his chin, wound his arms around him tightly, and released a shuddering breath.  
  
Slowly, Kakashi’s arms – stiff as the branches of a tree – moved to Círdan’s back in return. Like a puppet who’d lost its strings, Kakashi sagged into the old elf’s embrace, broken sobs of old pains, sorrow, and loneliness tearing through his frame.  
  
Círdan vowed then. Vowed that nobody would ever hurt Kakashi again. That nobody would ever wield him like the weaponed he’d been forced to become to survive – through blood and death – again. That nobody – not even the _Valar_ – would be allowed to do so. And if Círdan had to defy Eru’s own will to do so then he _would_.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Kakashi took to Círdan’s open display of fatherly love toward him with reverence of an orphan starved of affection. Knowing that elves were openly affectionate toward loved ones, Kakashi basked in Círdan’s love without shame. It was an indulgence he’d never before been allowed to have or experience. Knowing that Círdan did not hold his past actions against him – Kakashi allowed himself to share a great deal more about his life than he’d ever dared with anyone else. However, sometimes Círdan wondered if Kakashi subconsciously tried to drive him away by telling him all the horrid details of his life – that if he revealed just a bit too much he expected Círdan to eventually wash his hands of him. That he unknowingly waited for the disappointment he’d always faced one way or the other – mostly via death. It made Círdan seethe in the privacy of his own bed-chamber – well away from Kakashi’s sensitive ears – that life had torn Kakashi down so far that he’d come to expect the pain and heartache of loss and abandonment as par the course.  
  
He'd informed Kakashi then, about the fëa of elves and what happened to the dead upon their passing. That even if – by some unknown or unlikely reason – either of them lost their lives, it was not the end. That Círdan would not disappear nor would they ever need to say goodbye to each other. That they would meet again and that death for them was not a permanent state of being. Kakashi would never have to say goodbye to any elven friends or loved ones for the rest of his long immortal life. That Námo would not punish him for past actions nor did the Valar deem him unworthy – for Ulmo had saved his precious fëa and brought him _home_. That it was the Valar themselves that had taken one look at him and said, ‘He belongs with us and you cannot have him any longer!’.  
  
Then Círdan had taken Kakashi into his arms and held him close, the tears of the warrior trailing down his cheeks, and told him that though he had no wife or husband, he was not opposed to the idea of having a son.  
  
And so Kakashi called Círdan father. And Círdan called Kakashi son.


	2. Mithrilion, the Son of the Sea!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kakashi is lost and then he's not. Because he got a pep talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather short but the reason for that is because I want to change the tone of the story going forward. I'm not sure why I wrote the beginning parts of it like some shitty poet BUT I want to get back into a more "normal story-telling style" from Círdan's and Kakashi's POV. You know, like something that doesn't fucking rhyme all the time. 
> 
> Anyway, I have no idea what I'm doing. Aaaand Enjoy!

Kakashi trailed his fingers across the still surface of the sea – a sight so mesmerizing he dared hardly breathe. For the merry twinkling of stars that glittered on the sea was unlike anything he’d ever seen in his rather short life. The wind was still and the night quiet. His thoughts, however, were far from serene. Life had taken such an unexpected turn. For the first time in Kakashi’s life, he walked without purpose. There were no missions to complete, no training to be done, no expectations of any kind. To simply _exist_ was a foreign concept he’d never encountered before. Something he didn’t know how to deal with.  
  
Kakashi was lost. And sometimes he figured himself afraid. The uncertainty and the next path to take were all but unknown to him and nothing he’d done so far had provided him with answers. Though Círdan claimed Ulmo – a god (and wasn’t that baffling?) – had saved his life and brought him to Mithlond, that was as much as anyone knew. Directionless and out of place – that was all Kakashi felt he was. Yet, even though Círdan was a much-needed anchor to his fragile mind even he could not help him now.  
  
He was obsolete. A sharp and finely honed blade without purpose or anyone or anything to wield it.  
  
That, perhaps, scared Kakashi more than anything else. All he knew was fighting and following orders. Only war and strife. To live in a place like Mithlond was as overwhelming as it was frightening – because surely the sound of a second shoe dropping was not far off? But Kakashi didn’t need to fight anymore.  
  
Círdan spoke of a Mithlond Guard filled with elven warriors who’d kept his realm safe for centuries, and so Kakashi didn’t know what to do with his new life if not to fight and bleed. Where he could fit in. He didn’t know what to do when all he could do was fight – yet, at the same time, he didn’t know if he _could_ take up a blade again if asked. Not after tasting the freedom of _choice_. Because the thought of submitting his will and service to yet another filled him with dread. To be outside of the reach of his Hokage was to realize how much of a prisoner he’d always been. Though he would always protect Círdan – his only guiding light in a world so strange and foreign – he didn’t know if he could protect anyone else. He’d already failed all those he’d tried. To the cost of his own life.   
  
A single dull grey eye followed the small ripples of water caused by his fingers – his thoughts sinking deeper into the miserable darkness they so often strayed. He ought not to be alone, he knew, his mood always plummeted to his feet when he was. Now with the threat of death each time he sank too deep, his inner wounds had turned all the more dangerous and traitorous. Círdan was concerned about him. Worried that the wounds of his soul were too deep to heal on his own. Círdan claimed he needed a purpose – something to put his mind to – but Kakashi had no idea what that could be. What could he do but wage war and sink his hands into the blood of his enemies? It was all he knew _how_ to do.  
  
But as Kakashi dragged his fingers over the still surface of the sea, at that moment, something _changed_. For where the sea had once been still, it no longer was, as something suddenly moved underneath its surface.  
  
Kakashi pulled his fingers back as though he’d been burned and then stilled his breath – his will alone forcing his fëa to dim into the darkness of night as his lone eye tracked the movement in the black water.  
  
Slowly, a being with a crown of silver hair rose up from the depths. A male – elf perhaps – of fair face and dark blue eyes. The sea curled around him, lifting him up while it simultaneously clung to him as though it mourned to see him leave, spreading his long silver robe around him as a water lily did for the sun. His blue eyes were deep and dark – a gaze full of knowledge and age – of rage and devastation, but also of love and care.  
  
Kakashi did not move. Alert and muscles tightly coiled. For the being before him – the predator – was a powerful unknown. But Kakashi trusted his instincts and so remained as he was – ready – but still.  
  
“I see now,” The being said, his voice little more than a whisper, but enough to raise the hair on Kakashi’s arms, “A turn of tides indeed. A sword rather than a shield.”  
  
“Who are you?” Kakashi breathed, his eye wide and his fëa rattled by the being's presence.  
  
The being – for it _could not_ be an elf – tilted his chin down and smiled. His eyes sucking in the light of the stars and the breath from Kakashi’s lungs,  
  
“I am Ossë, the Master of the Seas. Ainu of Ulmo and friend of the Teleri.” In the next moment, Ossë was less than a breath from Kakashi face, “Stranger from far away – lost at sea – adrift among the stars. What do they call thee?”  
  
Kakashi stared unflinchingly at Ossë who was close enough to kiss, heart pounding in his ears for he was the maw of a maelstrom but also the wrath of the sea, and thus replied,  
  
“I have many names. Some more unpleasant than others.”  
  
Ossë’s smile widened, “Speak them all, oh stranger lost at sea!”  
  
Kakashi swallowed thickly but then, from one moment to the next, found his shoulders sagged and his heart aching from memories, “Hatake Kakashi.” He said but looked away at last, voice thick with shame, “The son of the White Fang. Kakashi of a thousand techniques. Copy Ninja Kakashi. Kakashi of the Copy Wheel Eye. Hero of the Sharingan. Cold-Blooded Kakashi. Friend-Killer Kakashi. Sixth Fire Shadow.”  
  
After a pause, he continued, voice barely a whisper, “Student. Mentor… Teacher.”  
  
“Nay,” Ossë reached for Kakashi’s chin, and then locked their gaze, “Mithrilion I name thee. A son of the sea. A turn of tides with power as wrathful as the sea. The rage and justice of the Teleri!”  
  
A shuddering breath stumbled past Kakashi’s lips, “What does that mean? What am I supposed to do? I don’t know why I’m here!”  
  
Ossë smiled then, kinder, “What is the purpose of the sea? To guide and aid those adrift. For thee are of the Teleri. A guiding star for those lost at sea – and guide thee will be for those that need a guiding star at sea.”  
  
“I- I’m supposed to guide people? To _what?_ ” _For what purpose? Why me? Why am I here? I don’t understand!_  
  
Kinder still Ossë’s smile grew, his hand gentle as he placed it on the crown of Kakashi’s long silver hair. “Where thee wish to go, Mithrilion. The sea is infinite and its potential untold – all thee need is faith. Fear not for thee are as sharp as the edge of a blade. Hearken to my words: Mithrilion, son of the sea! The turn of tides of the Teleri! Stand strong and look around for thee are a guiding star for those lost at sea! A special star among many common ones thee will be.”  
  
Then Ossë leaned forward and pressed his lips to Kakashi’s forehead. As though a burden eased off of his shoulders, Kakashi exhaled slowly and closed his eyes, free from his dark thoughts all at once. Ossë’s fingers moved from the crown of his head and to his cheek and then – the Master of the Sea, Ainu of Ulmo and friend of the Teleri – was gone.  
  
All Kakashi could hear was his own beating heart and an echo of Ossë’s words in the wind – free at last.  
  
And so, he did not notice Círdan until a hand gently fell on his shoulder – startling him out of his blessedly empty mind and forced him to turn around to face the elf who he found himself calling father. Círdan’s gaze was solemn but proud.  
  
“You are not alone, Mithrilion. Share with us this burden of fate. Let us walk it together.”  
  
Only then did Kakashi – _Mithrilion_ – see the silent observers all around him: the Teleri.  
  
His _family_.  
  
His _home_.  
  
“…Alright.” He said and was suddenly no longer alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't understand what Ossë said, it's basically: "It's ok boo-boo, you do what you want and people who realize how awesome you are will totally follow you like ducklings. Can't go wrong and even if you fuck up that's okay too. I'm also a bit of a fuck-up and I'm still here and the Teleri totally adores me anyway." ヽ(´ー｀)┌


End file.
